If you stroll down memory lane, wear a codpiece
Even though I've been living back in Grand Haven for over a year and a half, it's not until recently that I've started to encounter people I knew in my previous life here (that's what retail will do for ya).
I've had cash-register run-ins with two guys who used to hang with my older siblings; one of them I recognized from the name on his check, and the other one could tell right away that I'm Tardist's sister. Come to think of it, there may be a slight family resemblance.
Exhibit A
Exhibit B
Yup.
This past summer was the 25th anniversary for my high-school graduating class, and I thought it might be interesting to attend the reunion, partly out of vague curiosity, but mostly out of the desire to have a really bizarre series of stories for the blog. It's not like I had scads of friends there or anything, but I thought it would be interesting to see how people had aged, what paths their lives had taken; there may also have been a tiny bit of hoping for a little entertainment of the schadenfreude variety. Those guys who used to throw soaked towels at me on swim day in phys ed: are they married to ugly women? Check. The burnouts who used to verbally abuse me at my locker every day: are they unable to attend because of prior commitments to the county lockup? Check.
Oh, it could have been so satisfying, soft as an easy chair, but alas - my classmates are obviously slackers, too, as no reunion ever materialized. Or, hell, maybe they had one and just didn't invite me. Can you blame 'em, what with my planning to run around and check them for their misery index?
A big part of my curiosity is my wondering if I'd even recognize these people. Really, when you don't see somebody for 25 years, it's easy to forget what he or she looked like. Add a quarter century of saggin' and baggin' on top of that, and we're probably all abstract, wrinkly mysteries to one another.
Damned if I didn't look at a customer a few weeks ago and think "Fuck me in the ass with a side of bacon if I didn't go to grade school through high school with that girl." Sure, it's the 40-something version of that girl, and I guess we're not so much "girls" now as grannies, but I recognized her at first glance. It happened again last weekend, too, where a customer walked in and I thought, "I know her." This one took me a second longer to place, but sure enough - she was yet another classmate, one whose wedding I attended very shortly after graduation, back when a hall full of teenagers could openly drink beer and the police didn't lead all the tipsy adults out of the joint and into the paddy wagon. Good times!
With that in mind, I checked out the message boards on Classmates. com this morning. While browsing, I came across a note posted by a girl who'd been the ultimate tough, smart-mouthed broad in junior high. Back in the day, she alternated between being my friend and promising to beat the living shit out of me, a threat I never took lightly, since there was no question I'd have quickly been reduced to a puddle of Bucky goulash if she'd ever decided to follow through. I clicked on her profile: She's now a grandmother. BUT, a grandmother with a motorcycle and tattoos. I'll bet her grandkids mind her just as pretty as you please. The best part of her profile, though, was this gem she shared from junior high, something I hadn't thought about for over 30 years:
The funniest thing I can remember from school was when Bob Alger slugged Leo Zupin in the nuts!
Comedic gold, especially considering Bob Alger was a student and Leo Zupin was the Vice Principal. We all had the giggles about that one for a long time. Although now that I think about it, it would make more sense for most teenage boys to be slugged in the nuts on a regular basis. Adults don't generally need nut slugging, and when they do, they have wives to take care of that sort of thing.
I wonder if any of my high-school teachers are still alive. I'm just waiting for the day one of them comes into the store, recognizes me, and stage whispers, "Aren't you the little heathen dyke who used to come into my class stoned out of her gourd?" to which I will innocently reply, "You must be mistaken; I was never little."
I've had cash-register run-ins with two guys who used to hang with my older siblings; one of them I recognized from the name on his check, and the other one could tell right away that I'm Tardist's sister. Come to think of it, there may be a slight family resemblance.
Exhibit A
Exhibit B
Yup.
This past summer was the 25th anniversary for my high-school graduating class, and I thought it might be interesting to attend the reunion, partly out of vague curiosity, but mostly out of the desire to have a really bizarre series of stories for the blog. It's not like I had scads of friends there or anything, but I thought it would be interesting to see how people had aged, what paths their lives had taken; there may also have been a tiny bit of hoping for a little entertainment of the schadenfreude variety. Those guys who used to throw soaked towels at me on swim day in phys ed: are they married to ugly women? Check. The burnouts who used to verbally abuse me at my locker every day: are they unable to attend because of prior commitments to the county lockup? Check.
Oh, it could have been so satisfying, soft as an easy chair, but alas - my classmates are obviously slackers, too, as no reunion ever materialized. Or, hell, maybe they had one and just didn't invite me. Can you blame 'em, what with my planning to run around and check them for their misery index?
A big part of my curiosity is my wondering if I'd even recognize these people. Really, when you don't see somebody for 25 years, it's easy to forget what he or she looked like. Add a quarter century of saggin' and baggin' on top of that, and we're probably all abstract, wrinkly mysteries to one another.
Damned if I didn't look at a customer a few weeks ago and think "Fuck me in the ass with a side of bacon if I didn't go to grade school through high school with that girl." Sure, it's the 40-something version of that girl, and I guess we're not so much "girls" now as grannies, but I recognized her at first glance. It happened again last weekend, too, where a customer walked in and I thought, "I know her." This one took me a second longer to place, but sure enough - she was yet another classmate, one whose wedding I attended very shortly after graduation, back when a hall full of teenagers could openly drink beer and the police didn't lead all the tipsy adults out of the joint and into the paddy wagon. Good times!
With that in mind, I checked out the message boards on Classmates. com this morning. While browsing, I came across a note posted by a girl who'd been the ultimate tough, smart-mouthed broad in junior high. Back in the day, she alternated between being my friend and promising to beat the living shit out of me, a threat I never took lightly, since there was no question I'd have quickly been reduced to a puddle of Bucky goulash if she'd ever decided to follow through. I clicked on her profile: She's now a grandmother. BUT, a grandmother with a motorcycle and tattoos. I'll bet her grandkids mind her just as pretty as you please. The best part of her profile, though, was this gem she shared from junior high, something I hadn't thought about for over 30 years:
The funniest thing I can remember from school was when Bob Alger slugged Leo Zupin in the nuts!
Comedic gold, especially considering Bob Alger was a student and Leo Zupin was the Vice Principal. We all had the giggles about that one for a long time. Although now that I think about it, it would make more sense for most teenage boys to be slugged in the nuts on a regular basis. Adults don't generally need nut slugging, and when they do, they have wives to take care of that sort of thing.
I wonder if any of my high-school teachers are still alive. I'm just waiting for the day one of them comes into the store, recognizes me, and stage whispers, "Aren't you the little heathen dyke who used to come into my class stoned out of her gourd?" to which I will innocently reply, "You must be mistaken; I was never little."
Katy Barzedor proclaimed this to be so at 1:23 PM
11 of you felt the overwhelming need to say somethin':
Oh man, my 20th reunion was odd, to say the least. I recognized only a handful. Of course it didn't help that must of us were outside...in the poor lighting and all.
My retail stint had me confronted with a few folks from my past, too. Most of them weren't too painful, but all were awkward.
(bonus points for me for recognizing that desk from a prior post)
*glares at Bone for not having attended that reunion now that he's reminded of it*
I remember going to one class reunion. Didn't recognize most of the people, sat with a guy who is on drugs for clinical depression, so, not fun.
Mr B, that desk used to be my vanity. It had girly stuff like combs, brushes, and mirrors. Of course Bucky would turn it into a desk.
Bucky, you've a most amusing blog.
Moi plans to view your vids as soon as moi gets to the library (We have 56k at home).
I never went to moi's grad nor any reunions.
Stay on groovin' safari,
Tor
I thought I remembered it had a dual purpose, but couldn't remember the full story.
As someone whose 14 year old daughter will be attending her first homecoming dance in less than two weeks' time, I can absolutely affirm that teenage boys need to be punched in the nuts on a regular basis. 'S'all'ahm'sayin'.
oh my...went to the 25th after leaving my hometown *immediately* after graduating.
it was totally worth it, but odd. Everyone wore black, grey, brown. I wore red. And rhinestones.
Priceless, I tell ya.
Mr B - I had to squint at peoples "yearbook badges" to figure out who the h they were, my memory for them was non-existent.
but the saggy, baggy, looks older than i by 10+ years quota? Fuliflled and overflowing.
I told you that nothing good could come from it. I didn't want to hang out with those fuckers when I had no choice. Now that I have a choice, I am using it.
Although I had a vague trace of regret after the fact.
I tend to find people frighteningly recognizable, no matter how many years pass. Sometimes I wish I didn't....
I only went to my 10th reunion. And that's when I figured out that I was still in touch with the people I cared about, and I wasn't much interested in anybody else. Haven't been back since.
I tend to find people frightening.
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